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Page 33 text:
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The soccer field too, the stage, the orchestra pit manage to capture their share of the student ' s vital commitment to the arts — so all is not lost. Perhaps in fact the student makes a shrewd investment of his vital energies for those occasions which call upon him to ACT. In that sense the Haverford education is successful heyond its own wildest dreams. Art is a DOING, and there may he poetry enough for a husy, uncomplicated soul in the geo- metric design searingly carried out of a goal shot by Hogenauer from a ball passed by Brinton, who himself received it from Oyelaran at the other end of the field. But the failure implied by the gap that forever yawns between intellect and sensibility, the fact that these young men seldom allow themselves to be fired by what they come to know, or want to know that by which they are moved, must not cease to disturb us. The same man who strides through his equations like a Caesar faces Emma Bovary or John Donne with the countenance of a sullen juvenile. He will be quick to criticize Julien Sorel for self-centeredness or immaturity, he can come to life to Marxian or Freudian implications of a character ' s actions, and will stalk the life out of any Myth or Symbol hapless enough to fall under his gaze — but to seize the grace, the beauty, the wit alive in a work of art, to wrestle with the Angel is not much in his line. To invite him to do so is to court embarrassment. To expect littl e knots of students to gather under the shade of our oak, beech, and elm, worthy of any Arcadia, and to fall out over the merits of a poem or a novel or a painting, to clash over Picasso or Bacon, for instance, is sheer naivete. Haverford harbors Con- cerns, it does not nurture Ecstasies — or Agonies, for that matter. It has seldom been given to me to see a student so much in love, for instance, that it made a difference. Is love itself a thing of the past? of the future, let us hope, for certainly almost none of my students speak of it, when it comes up in a book or a poem, as something of which they know. In sum, the Haverford man is able, he is serious, he is concerned, he mostly has a berth awaiting him in the tangle of interlocking bureaucracies that has come to represent the World. But can he skip? can he caper? does his heart beat faster as beauty brushes him by? can he love, or does he merely prate gravely about duty and concern? Has Arcadia marked him with her grace, as well as shaped him with her care? This is the question upon which hangs all the rest, this is the one blessing to pray for, if the envious Fairy has stayed the wand from which it was to flow. Fay 29
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Page 32 text:
“
GENIUS LOCI MARCEL GUTWIRTH The first thing we are compelled to say ahout Haverford is soothing to the local pride — and since the second thing I mean to say is not, let us have it out at once, and then dwell on it for a reassuring moment or two. Haverford has a GENIUS LOCI. This is no small tribute to a college, large or small, young or old. The place has character, and it is a character which manages to mold successfully the generations that pass through it, to permeate the many operations — intellectual, administrative, janitorial — which go into an education. Perhaps the most important element in the Haverford milieu is, quite simply, the physical environment: the quiet beauty of a landscaped English park closed off from the blatancies of the suburban sprawl. In the quietness, of course, lurks a threat, of a diminishing vitality which indeed mars our idealized community. Men who loved nature and cared for their fellows, men like Edward Woolman, a manager, Albert Wilson, a professor, toiled with their own hands to enhance our pleasure in the Nature Walk. Men like Arnold Post poured the same loving care into the thought- ful management of their dahlias as they did into the ordering of Greek aorists in their students ' minds. The knowledge that there is that of God in every man may make at times for a sloppy kind of permissiveness. When it is buttressed by the testimony of trees nobly spaced, as by one who knows nature ' s business and man ' s place in it, it gathers a kind of grandeur, from the surge of nurturing love — compounded of strength and grace — which such an achievement bespeaks. The sense of beauty, alas, stops at the bound- ary of nature. By some tragic flaw in the Quaker tradition, where man is concerned, drabness takes over. This drabness, lavished upon our living and working arrangements at the College, spills over into the minds of students and faculty alike. The spirit of Philistinism is the summation and con- summation of the Haverford education. I am sorry to say. This is the reverse of the Quaker coin, the negative inheritance, the incubus which those few of us who care cannot seem to manage to shake off the student ' s back. Great virtues exist side by side with the atrophy of the sense of beauty, with the adamant prosiness of the Haverford mind. There are impressive feats of intellect, and nowadays an awakened sense of CAUSE, of social obligations running beyond the respectable channels of action — AFSC, the week-end work camp, — skirting, in fact, social disruption and courting jail. Such is the positive Quaker inherit- ance. There is also, rather unexpectedly, and extraordinarily, a truly Saturnalian release of in- ventiveness, grace, and vitality one night in the year — on Class Night. Wit. music, and dance, an outpouring of creativity of soul. mind, and body sometimes occurs on that one occasion which leaves the faculty limp and envious at the thought that so much youthful spirit lurks in the rigid husks that lend themselves patiently to the classroom procedures on every other day of the year. 28
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